


Words

by Kentrakshi (Sartorially)



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Gen, Gift Work, Mentions of Death in a Psychological Sense, Mentions of Transgender Dave, Short Story, binding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:26:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2684342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sartorially/pseuds/Kentrakshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>THIS IS FUCKING OLD AND BADLY WRITTEN. PARDON.</p><p>The mirror was there, and for once it did not mock him. It showed him who he was, instead of a girl that carried his face and his voice with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shatterbrained (fabricatedMiracles)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricatedMiracles/gifts).



> Mostly, I slapped this together after conversing with the ever lovely Aube about the wonder that is transgender Dave. I took it a bit further in this fic, and stuck in some eluding to maybe transsexual desires, but whatever. (I don't mean to be dismissive, for those in the trans community.)
> 
> But yeah. Hour of preparation, thirty minutes to write, and another twenty to proofread because I'm a pathological perfectionist like that. Hopefully, it's not too much of a bust to warrant the total disowning from the bubbling love of my dearest Sun. 'Cause that would suck so many balls. You don't even know.
> 
> Also, one more thing. I may expand on this fic, but THIS one is a stand alone. It has no ties anywhere.

Thirteen years of rules, shoved down his throat. Dress codes and favorite activities already picked out for him. Usage of the wrong phrases, the wrong names. Maybe it seemed like nothing to anyone else, but thirteen years of being inside the wrong mold, the wrong body, the wrong world. It felt like an eternity. For as long as he could remember, he had known that he was different, that he was otherwise.

So, one day, he killed her.

He took a pair of scissors and stabbed her through the heart. He let her blood run into the carpet, and emerged like a goddamn butterfly. Once an ugly little worm, and now shattering open the prison that held him inside, letting his wings unfurl in the first few gusts of the hurricane that was David Mian Strider. Soon, her hair mingled with her blood, and her chest was ravaged until he was satisfied with the way his self-bought binder held him together. Made him complete.

The mirror was there, and for once it did not mock him. It showed him who he was, instead of a girl that carried his face and his voice with her. Thin fingers, shaking and brittle as twigs, dragged through silky hair before gripping at the torn jeans around his ankles. Up they came, followed by a shirt that had once hugged the budding beginning of femininity, and now wrapped around the chest of a man. He breathed out, lungs only slightly compressed, and found himself crying.

Loud, proud, flinging aside her shroud. He was Dave Strider. Dave motherfucking Strider. God, he felt like a great, powerful raptor, soaring on thermals that bubbled up in his chest.

In a fit of bravery, the newly born boy turned his sights on his brother. He would be sprawled on the futon this time of day, with his legs poking off one end and his head off the other. Relaxed, tired from a long day of dealing with the idiots that didn't get it.

As he approached, observed the very position he had predicted, Dave found himself at a loss for words. What was he going to say? How was he going to explain something that he hadn't been able to voice for the entirety of his life? The fear hit him, followed by the anguish of a singular fact. If he never told Bro. If he never explained it. Then who the hell, in the entire world, would ever be there for him to lean on? Nobody.

And, seeing that big galumph just sprawled out in a doze on furniture that was too small for him made Dave feel safe. Like all the times within his girlhood that he had been soothed by the mere sight of his brother coming home with shitty toys and horror movies that would make Dave laugh while his brother cried.

A hand on one broad shoulder, with uncertain crimson peeking through the thick aviators for the reassuring gold. Their gazes were linked almost almost immediately, with Bro's slightly chapped lips parting. Dave had braced himself, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer bluntness he received.

“Your hair looks like shit.” His heart was nearly crushed, but it was dipped in iron before even a sliver of a crack appeared. “We'll go get that professionally done, lil man.”

“What?” he whispered. Damn, that was articulate. But, really. Little man. Professionally done. They'd go out in the world like this, and they'd talk to people. He'd be introduced as−

“Y'heard me. Now gimme your name 'fore I start callin' ya Dicky.”

The biggest smile stretched over the boy's face, spreading so wide that his cheeks hurt. At the same time, his eyes were watery, blurring out the warm half-grin that Bro was giving him in return.

“I'm Dave, Bro. David Mian Strider.”

A pause. “Ya kept it, huh? Not too girly for ya?”

“C'mon. This shit's golden. When they were testing out the substance that would later be known as gold, they tried to break down his helliciously magnificent, inspect all the elements that made it up. But they couldn't, and this bullshit was struck down as pure, unyielding like the most shitty of katanas.”

One big calloused hand ruffled up his hair, lifting the last of the restraints from his shoulders. They laughed together, thunderous baritone and carefully honed tenor, letting all the unspoken words find another place to rest. They both already understood.


End file.
